


You'll only see my reflection

by ohfreckle



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hair-pulling, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:23:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohfreckle/pseuds/ohfreckle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It takes a moment until the words sink in. Hannibal’s hands tighten in his hair until Will’s eyes snap open, and what he sees in Hannibal’s eyes should scare him, but it doesn’t. There’s the unspoken ‘I can help you’, but behind it lurks something dark and knowing. It rattles at the locked door in Will’s mind until it slides open slowly, hinges creaking with years of disuse.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll only see my reflection

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [唯见幻影](https://archiveofourown.org/works/753185) by [styx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/styx/pseuds/styx)



> Written for Nellie, who asked for Will/Hannibal and hair pulling.  
> It's deliberately vague and short, because, well, we'll have to wait until the show airs for actual plot and characterization. Only three more days!

There’s beauty in the way her eyes darken right before the life bleeds out of them. It trickles away slowly in perfect unison with the warm drip of blood that slicks his hands. He strokes a finger over her cheek, almost lovingly, a silent thank you for the organ that’s still pulsing in his hand. 

Will shudders. He doesn’t have to open his eyes, doesn’t have to see the pool of darkened blood that has yet to be cleaned away. He knows it was done quickly, with professional precision, can see the elegant fingers cutting into her as if they belong to his own body. 

_Lovingly. Like an artist._

“Christ, could somebody get this freak out of here,” one of the agents in the room mutters under his breath. 

Will’s eyes snap open. Did he actually say that aloud? He should know better than that. He’s used to the way they fear him as much as the killers they hunt, the way they need him but don’t _want_ him. It doesn’t mean their rejection doesn’t sting.

The right thing to do is to pretend that he feels the same horror as the agents who go on quietly about their duties in the small room. That he feels the same terror at something so incomprehensible as what goes on in the ripper’s mind.

Will _is_ afraid. He’s afraid because he knows exactly what it is that goes on in that mind and fear is not the only thing he feels. The polite thing is to pretend that his heart doesn’t race when he closes his eyes and feels the give of flesh when he drives home the knife, that it doesn’t leave him desperate and hard. 

Will is a master at pretending. Considering the shrewd look Jack gives him when he says he’ll drive home instead of sleeping at the hotel he’s not sure he’s succeeding this time.

* * *

Hannibal’s car is in Will’s driveway, and that frightens him, too. 

He hopes it’s because Jack called ahead and not because Hannibal has developed an eerie sense of anticipating his every need. After just a few weeks Hannibal is too close already, skirting the obstacles in Will’s carefully crafted maze of diversion as elegantly as he does everything else. He’s scratched at the heavily locked door in Will’s mind that says _politeness ends here_ more than once and Will is terrified of what will happen if he opens it. _When_ he opens it. 

Hannibal follows him inside without a word, a quiet presence at his back. He’s gone for a moment, and then soft light from his office illuminates the hallway, leaving it mostly in shadows. 

“My dear William,” Hannibal says, stepping in front of him. “You mustn’t let them know that you’re afraid. There are so many things to be afraid of, but these agents aren’t one of them.” 

And then another one of Will’s obstacles crumbles as if it never existed at all. 

Will never allows people to touch him, but he holds perfectly still while Hannibal lightly noses his neck, _smells_ him in a long line from clavicle to temple like his fear is something to be savored. It’s not something Will gives, it’s something Hannibal takes from him. It feels intimate, like a kill. Only this time Will is on the other side and the lack of choice is strangely liberating, leaving him confused and with his heart pounding.

Will’s eyes slide shut at the feeling of those elegant hands cradling his face. He barely remembers how it feels to be touched like this, with something close to affection, too scared to let people close and have them turn away as soon as they take a look behind the facade. 

“You mustn’t be afraid of who you are. You mustn’t be _ashamed_ of who you are. But you have to learn to ask for help if the places you go become too dark.”

It takes a moment until the words sink in. Hannibal’s hands tighten in his hair until Will’s eyes snap open, and what he sees in Hannibal’s eyes should scare him, but it doesn’t. There’s the unspoken ‘ _I_ can help you’, but behind it lurks something dark and knowing. It rattles at the locked door in Will’s mind until it slides open slowly, hinges creaking with years of disuse. 

“Please,” Will whispers. He’s not sure what he’s even asking for.

One of Hannibal’s hands tightens in his hair, and there’s steady pressure on his shoulder. Sliding to his knees feels so natural Will doesn’t even question it. Hannibal is unmistakably hard, the ridge of his cock pressing against his impeccably tailored slacks right before Will’s eyes. Will has never done this. Hell, he can count the times somebody else did it to him on one hand. But he wants to, and when he looks up for guidance Hannibal looks at him with fondness in his eyes. 

“My dear William, all you had to was ask.”

Hannibal guides him forward until the fabric of his slacks is rough against Will’s lips. Will mouthes the line of Hannibal’s cock awkwardly, cheeks burning with embarrassment at how inept he is at this, but he tries to make up with determination for his lack of skill. He has to come up for air eventually, but he _can’t_ , not with Hannibal’s hands in his hair, pressing Will so tight against the soaked fabric that his whine of protest is lost somewhere in the back of his throat.

His head is yanked back at the precise moment his vision turns dark. Will doesn’t know what hurts more, the burn in his lungs while he takes huge gulps of air or the roots of his hair. It doesn’t matter because it lasts only for a few seconds before Hannibal pulls him against his slacks again, and this time all Will feels is the sharp pain of his hair being ripped from its roots. 

Everything fades away. The warped images in Will’s head slowly melt until the deer that’s been stalking him is swallowed by black nothingness. All that’s left is pain and, to his own surprise, arousal that finally belongs to him and not to a faceless killer. Will goes slack with the relief of it and doubles his efforts, suckling the head of Hannibal’s cock through the wet fabric, tasting detergent and the salt of his own tears. 

Will loses count how often they repeat this game of push and pull. He spends himself with a breathless whine, choking against the soaked cloth of Hannibal’s trousers and the feeling of blood soaking his hair where Hannibal presses his short nails into his scalp right before he comes with a small gasp. 

For a few glorious minutes Will just kneels there, face still pressed against Hannibal’s middle, and enjoys the aches in his body. They can’t stay here in the hallway forever, though, and Will goes willingly when Hannibal pulls him upright with a hand in his hair. He lets his weight sag a little, breath hitching at the sharp sting against his bruised scalp.

“You’re very naughty, Will,” Hannibal says, his voice fond, and kisses Will’s forehead. “Now, what’s to be done about that?”


End file.
